Pandora
by GiantInflatableWalrus
Summary: When Pandora opened the box, she left hope behind. Had she been a wiser person, she would have destroyed it. Remus Lupin, musing on Sirius Black- Onehsot.


_**Just a little something - enjoy.**_

_**Remus POV, on Sirius - not long after leaving Hogwarts.  
**_

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When Pandora opened the box, she left hope at the bottom.

Had Pandora been a wiser person, she would have destroyed it. She would have travelled to the furthest corners of the globe, sailed the seven seas – she would have traded her soul, just to be rid of it.

Because we all know it's the hope that kills us, not the despair.

I have mourned before, and I know its pain intimately. But how does one mourn for what is not lost? How do I mourn for what is sat in front of me, counting stars and planning his escape? The truth is I cannot mourn for it, and so will not know the peace that follows grief, always several long paces behind. I cannot grieve for what I still cling to, cannot let go of what I still want, so desperately.

I shouldn't dare to dream, let alone to hope. I conceded, long ago, to the fact that it – w_e_- are impossible. We are poles apart, separated by a chasm of conflicting personality – we are impossible. But then, you always quite liked the impossible – you like the idea of proving your capability, to shock and thrill – you love the idea of proving everyone wrong.

Prove _me_ wrong.

Always being right is not such a gift, in the end.

You talk of leaving- you tell me all the things you long to see and do, the places you plan to visit – you plan to go anywhere that isn't here. Anywhere that doesn't have the decay of London, anywhere that does not hold a memory for you- anywhere that is a blank canvas, on which you can impress yourself– you want a fresh start, where they haven't written a script for you – you want to white wash out the man we know, and destroy our expectations of him.

But this is not _running away: _it's not _retreating_- it's _escaping. _Escaping to a thousand new places, a thousand new cities, a thousand new skies and a thousand new lives – none of which I am in.

In escaping, you condemn me to an abyss – and how should _**I**_ escape, without you?

But still, I hope – that one last thing in the box, which refuses to die. I can accept I must lose you, but it cannot – it still tries to tell me you will stay, whispering slyly in my left ear that you will change your mind ... while you speak into my right, about the Far East and all the people you will become. I don't think I will like these people half as much as I like you. I don't think I could talk with them into the early hours of the morning, I don't think I could let those people know me completely- I don't think I could let them see my flaws and faults and fractures. I don't think I could love them as much as I love you.

Hope is exhausting, gnawing away until we are hollow – and hollow should never be confused with numb. Numbness would be a relief, a respite – but it is temporary, one day the feeling will return. The spaces left behind, grooved out by blind hope, can never be filled back in, can never be repaired- eternal and never changing.

I have hoped for you to change your mind, to decide that this – right here, next to me- is exactly where you want to be. But you still pour over your map, remarking on points of interest. I am not a point of interest. Your eyes skim over me, seeking out the window above my head – and I know you are thinking about the open and freedom. I have not known freedom for so very long now, manacled and welded to you. And yet you don't notice it. You don't notice me pleading silently, praying to every god I know the name of and wishing on every distant star – you do not notice because you are single minded and determined, because these are things you cannot comprehend – they are qualities I loathe in you. But love, all the same. You have made me a walking contradiction, and I can't quite bring myself to care.

I hope that the day you leave, you are gone before I am awake- before I can plead and beg, before I can tell the truth. God, anything but the truth. I dread the day I wake up to see packed bags and an empty wardrobe. I do not want to become the person who chains the days together waiting for a postcard from a long lost friend. If you go, I hope you don't turn back. If you do, I might not be there waiting for you. And if I am? I doubt you will like what you see.

I hope you find what you're looking for, nestled away at the foot of a mountain hundreds of miles away. And when you find it, I hope you do not think of me. I hope you never think that you made a mistake.

I hope you are happy.

But only because I haven't yet found a way to stop.

When Pandora opened the box, she left something at the bottom.

Had Pandora been a wiser person, she would have destroyed it.

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_**But of course, where would we be without a little hope?**_

_**Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated- and I must apologise for the stray commas and what-not, but please do point them out when you spot them.**_


End file.
